There's businesse in these faces: why so sadly Greet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines, And not o'th' Court of Britaine
Corn. Hayle great King, To sowre your happinesse, I must report The Queene is dead
Cym. Who worse then a Physitian Would this report become? But I consider, By Med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she? Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life, Which (being cruell to the world) concluded Most cruell to her selfe. What she confest, I will report, so please you. These her Women Can trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekes Were present when she finish'd
Cym. Prythee say
Cor. First, she confest she neuer lou'd you: onely Affected Greatnesse got by you: not you: Married your Royalty, was wife to your place: Abhorr'd your person
Cym. She alone knew this: And but she spoke it dying, I would not Beleeue her lips in opening it. Proceed
Corn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loue With such integrity, she did confesse Was as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life (But that her flight preuented it) she had Tane off by poyson
Cym. O most delicate Fiend! Who is't can reade a Woman? Is there more? Corn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she had For you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke, Should by the minute feede on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos'd By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to Orecome you with her shew; and in time (When she had fitted you with her craft, to worke Her Sonne into th' adoption of the Crowne: But fayling of her end by his strange absence, Grew shamelesse desperate, open'd (in despight Of Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repented The euils she hatch'd, were not effected: so Dispayring, dyed
Cym. Heard you all this, her Women? La. We did, so please your Highnesse
Cym. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautifull: Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had beene vicious To haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter) That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all. Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus behind, and Imogen.
Thou comm'st not Caius now for Tribute, that The Britaines haue rac'd out, though with the losse Of many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suite That their good soules may be appeas'd, with slaughter Of you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted, So thinke of your estate
Luc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day Was yours by accident: had it gone with vs, We should not when the blood was cool, haue threatend Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods Will haue it thus, that nothing but our liues May be call'd ransome, let it come: Sufficeth, A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer: Augustus liues to thinke on't: and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing onely I will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne) Let him be ransom'd: Neuer Master had A Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent, So tender ouer his occasions, true, So feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyne With my request, which Ile make bold your Highnesse Cannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme, Though he haue seru'd a Roman. Saue him (Sir) And spare no blood beside
Cym. I haue surely seene him: His fauour is familiar to me: Boy, Thou hast look'd thy selfe into my grace, And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore, To say, liue boy: ne're thanke thy Master, liue; And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt, Fitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it: Yea, though thou do demand a Prisoner The Noblest tane
Imo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse